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Concerto Muy Grosso

Every Friday and Saturday evening I would zoom from Novato to Santa Rosa, “play” my set of drums for a specified number of hours and then zip back home to Novato in the early morning hours.

We musicians have never been known for stability and the other members of the trio: a piano player and “stand up” (old fashioned non-electric) bass guitar man, were no exceptions. The bass player was the leader of the band. He was also the most important member since he was a local boy who had landed the job and who received and distributed the paychecks every week. The piano player was a lean, hairy, morose chap who usually showed up late for work and on some drug or other—but he was an OK piano player.

Our trio played no original music at all—just familiar tunes from the so-called “hit parade” of the day and old dance band standards so we never rehearsed. It was easy, if not very inspired, work—and the steady paycheck was very welcome. Our audience from the motel’s bar and dining room every weekend was made up of a few late night tourists from the motel hoping for some kind of action and locals looking for dates and entertainment.

The manager of the dining room and dance area where we played was also a regular. He didn’t care what we played as long as we only took no more than the allotted 15 minute hourly breaks and did not get too loud. He was always lurking behind some potted plants and a screen loosely covered with plastic vines behind our bandstand, watching us—

But during the few weeks of our engagement the piano player’s behavior got more and more erratic. He arrived later and later for work and was more and more obviously drunk or drugged. The manager warned us that our group could be replaced quite easily.

The leader and I both needed the money badly so we tried to talk some sense to the piano player but he was never in the mood to talk. He was shacked up with some woman in an apartment over a garage and when I accompanied the band leader to his place once or twice to deliver his pay check and to try to convince him to be more cooperative, he and his girlfriend were always in bed no matter what time of day we visited so we would rouse him by shouting under his window until he appeared and came down for his check. He would goggle at us when we asked him to go easy with the drugs and try to show up on time, but I don’t think he even knew what we were talking about.

One night he came to work late as usual and we began to play, but we had only played one or two tunes when he stood up, took out a pocket knife, opened the lid of the piano and started cutting the “harp” strings-- starting with the little high-pitched ones (ping. ping, ping…pong, pong, pong…pung, pung, pung…) continuing until he reached the heavy, lower pitched ones which his knife couldn’t cut—all the time repeating in a low, controlled whisper: “I can’t take this anymore”. Then he closed the piano lid and stalked out.

The manager was watching this unexpected solo performance from behind the vines and when the piano player was safely out of the room he came out and said: “I guess you know what this means.”

We packed our instruments silently, left the “El Rancho” and that was the forever end of my musical career on the mainland USA.

Tomasito, 2009


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